Sacred Spaces

Our state of mind informs our reality, does it not?

I recall the impact of what I called "a special place" even as a young child: how I tiptoed when I entered the local church, a concert hall, a ruined abbey.   I instinctively felt the need to speak softly, to allow my eyes to rove across every niche, to tune my ears to the slightest sound, while being aware of a growing sense of awe in my little chest.   The church, blessed and consecrated for worship,  its very essence taken from its soaring nave, candlelit apses and impressive altar, marked it as the place to meet the divine.  The concert hall, echoing when empty, but later resounding with glorious music, also inspired that same heart-swell, accompanied by a feeling that I ought to be good.

The ruins of Kirkstall Abbey, Yorkshire, sacked during the reign of Henry VIII under his Dissolution of the Monasteries decree, were my early introduction to pantheism.   Nature has overtaken the site of the deconsecrated abbey, although some of its stone walls still stand, and breaths of its former glory remain to stir the breast: a ruined wall rising starkly against the sky, a flowering shrub at its base on which briefly rests a butterfly, along with the soft notes of the droning bee.  William Wordsworth wrote, in both his beautiful poetry and thoughtful prose, about the hallowed relationship between nature and spirit, and I am persuaded.

But what about retaining that feeling of awe in more lowly spots?  I had heard about cloistered nuns who believed that the most menial tasks were sacred because they were offered to their God, which inspired a transcendent feeling as they scrubbed.  I sometimes thought about that when I was cleaning toilets in the campground we owned for several years, but could never get myself into a contemplative state of mind.   The noise of faucets being turned on and off, the flushing of the toilets, the sound of the mop splashing in a bucket, did not nudge me onto a higher plane.   It was a chore to be finished as quickly as possible.  Not only that, I  resented the campers who came in right afterwards to use my newly scoured facilities, leaving soap scum in the sinks and wet footprints on the floor.   So much for my feeling that I ought to be good.

One summer, a man and his wife stayed for a while in our campground.  They remained longer than they originally intended, because they believed the surrounding woods was a haven for fairies.   They observed their tiny faces peering over the boughs of trees, smiling through the leaves, and peeking under the ancient roots.   The couple were also very conversant about nature, particularly wild plants and flowers, made their own oils and unguents from rosemary and lavender, and were altogether charming and generous in their sharing of the lore they claimed as their own.    When I was with them, I confess I found myself wanting to find an elf beside the mushrooms growing plentifully in the dank, moist earth.   However, although I never glimpsed one of the little folk, I did enjoy a feeling of innocence for a little while, along with the "hail-fellow-well-met" feeling in my heart.

A variety of places and experiences over the years have filled me with both reverence and joy, and I am open to the idea that the most unremarkable areas can evoke such deep feelings, even though the communal bathroom was a stretch for me.  For example,  I believe that Robbin Island, the notorious prison in South Africa that housed Nelson Mandela for so many years is now sacred.  The essence of this good man surely remains there: his faith in his anti-apartheid cause, his love for humanity, and his courage in the face of years of injustice, torture and imprisonment, either dwells in the air within the compound or is imprinted on our minds when we visit the site.   Does it matter which?

I now think of my little house as a container for the sacred.  The window seat, built so lovingly for me by my husband, lends itself to meditation, tender thoughts and, yes, comfort in difficult moments.  At times, I view my dog Bertie's trusting, sleepy little body between my knees as a beloved icon.   And having been prodded in the following direction over the years, I've also discovered that not only spaces, but certain times of the year also lend themselves to deeper contemplation.   As part of our collective unconscious, pagan themes of darkness/light emerge in our psyche over and over again.

At Easter, for example, this old story and its accompanying rituals which overlay even more ancient tales,  allow us to publically embrace death--of self, seasons, loved ones--either within religious movements or without, but always with a sense of hope.  Winter is nearly over--spring is on the horizon.   Of course, darkness can hover at any time of the year, but it is a comfort to be able to ritualize it or speak it out loud as a sacrament.   As I have aged, I've learned to move towards sadness when it comes upon me.   I no longer flee from despair, but, like Persephone,  allow myself to descend into the Underworld.   It is not pleasant, but it's there that I have always absorbed the emotional lessons life has had in store for me.   By greeting them, I am able to rise up again, a little wiser and filled with gratitude,  aware of the naturalness of the yin and yang of life. 

I don't really know if I've ever experienced the divine or if I'd recognize it if I did,  but I have come close to transcendence in places other than a church, a concert hall or a ruined abbey.  I've also experienced a spiritual renewal in the presence of loved ones--or in the memory of them.   The sacred waits to be discovered in the most unlikely of spots.  We simply have--to be.

Ode to Mashed Potatoes

My friend Alexandra
Fixed the best mashed potatoes--
It was
Her raison d'etre.
At fifteen years old,
We spent Saturdays together.
She lived in a three-story home;
Kitchen in the cellar,
Tiny work bench,
Small white cookstove.
At four p.m. we'd descend
The steep dark staircase
To peel potatoes
Stored in a wooden bucket
Behind the sturdy oak door.
Big white Idahos,
Thick brown peel,
With eyes.
She examined closely
Every potato I pared;
Made sure
All specks were removed,
Then cut them up
Just so.
Popped them in cosy salt-water
To boil.
Softened to perfection
Out they came--
And the magic began.
I've never seen anyone beat potatoes
With such elan;
First with a fork
Until all the lumps
Were frightened into submission,
Then with a whisk
Until they were
Air-downy--
Adding gradually
Soft coverlets of
Golden butter and
Creamy milk. 
Such fluffy potatoes,
They grew in size
As she whisked
And whisked.
I swear her right arm was
Twice the size
Of her left one. 
When the glorious concoction
Was spun
To her satisfaction,
They were cradled in a warm oven
So they could
Be eaten
At the correct temperature.  
Sometimes I stayed for dinner--
Beef Wellington? filet mignon?
I don't recall
The rest of the menu.
But those potatoes,
Mashed with such care,
Peeled and eyed
Under such loving
Supervision,
Resting comfortably
But briefly
On our plates,
Were the gustatory stars.

Before I Was Here, Part IV

The happy couple honeymooned in Torquay in the south of England.   To ensure that the ride was easy on his bride, Ernest purchased a sidecar for his motorbike, and their luggage was stored in it, but leaving a little room so that Gerty could sit in it for a while if she tired of riding pillion.  The days up to their wedding were very busy, so once they arrived in Torquay, they did some sight seeing and were glad to relax in the sea air under a sunny sky.

A month before the wedding, they had rented a small cottage on Stonebridge Lane in Old Farnley.  It had been empty for some time, and smelled musty from disuse.   Gerty had fallen in love with it at first sight.   It was  built around 1770, at the same time as its neighbour, the Nag's Head public house, which was just up the street from the Wesleyan Methodist Church.   The outer walls of the dwelling were at least eight inches thick.   A beautiful window with a wide ledge, deep enough to sit on, overlooked the corner where Hall Lane and Stonebridge Lane met.    Primitive indoor plumbing graced the tiny bathroom and there was running water in the kitchen, but nothing else had been touched.  The house was simply crying out for some tender loving care.

They enlisted the help of Ernest's brother Tommy and his girlfriend Lily, Ernest's sister Emily and her husband Harold, plus Gerty's sisters Beaty, Laura and Kathleen, and they all willingly joined in the painting, sweeping, scrubbing and polishing it required.   Gerty made curtains for all the windows, Ernest's parents gave them one of their small carpets to lay over the stone floor, and Gerty's father brought fresh flowers from his allotment garden.   A new double bed, a small oak sideboard with matching table and four chairs, and a living room suite took all of their savings, but everything was fully paid for.   Much fun and laughter accompanied all this work, and they were both very grateful for the help--and very happy with the outcome.

Life continued apace for Gerty and Ernest.   They continued to work hard, saved as much as they could for a house of their own "in the future," enjoyed their lovely little home, and discovered they had a knack for entertaining.    Nothing fancy--but friends and family were always welcome and visited frequently.    Gerty's cousin Agnes bought a house and lived just across the street with her husband Sidney and young daughter Norma.

One day,  Lily, now Tommy's fiancee, sought out Gerty.   "I just want to tell you that there's a woman who's nobbling Ernest," she said gravely.   "I popped into Taylor's Chemist Shop yesterday, and there was your Ernest leaning across the counter talking to a blonde with a big bust, and she was flirting with him like mad.  I understand this is not the first time, either--usually around 5 o'clock," she ended with a flourish.  Gerty thought it over, and decided to follow up.     A couple of days later, at 5 p.m. on the dot, she stood in front of Taylor's and looked through the shop window.    Sure enough, there was Ernest laughing and talking with the blonde with the big bust.    Gerty opened the door, and as the bell tinkled to sound the entrance of a customer, the blonde turned and looked at her, then said brightly, "I'll just step back so you can serve this lady, Ernest."    And she smiled and wiggled her fingers at him.    Throwing back her head, Gerty loudly declared,  "I am no lady, I am his wife!"

The blonde's smile faded, and she hurriedly left the shop.   Ernest blushed and stammered, but Gerty silently turned and went home.    History once again has nothing to say about a conversation in which Gerty took an important part, but Lily told Thomas Ambrose, who read his errant son the riot act.   He ended by pointing out that Ernest was very lucky to have a good wife like Gerty, and that he fully expected to hear no more about any such caddish behavior.   Case closed.   

A little over a year later, and on a beautiful summer day in 1938, Ernest and Gerty took a walk from Old Farnley to New Farnley along Lawns Lane.    Across from what was then known as Quarry House, they saw the foundations of fourteen new semi-detached homes.    The builder himself happened to be there, checking on his crew and the work they were carrying out.     The young couple stopped to chat with him, and found out that each  home would cost three hundred pounds with a ten percent deposit.   Every few days thereafter, they walked by to watch the progress--with longing in their eyes.     "You're a nice young couple," the builder remarked one day, "and I think you'd like to buy one, wouldn't you?"   "Yes, sir," said Ernest eagerly, "But we hadn't planned on buying a house so soon, and besides, we don't have thirty pounds saved up yet."     "If you're really keen," said the builder, "I will lend you thirty pounds, interest free, and you can pay me back at one pound a week for thirty weeks.   Can you manage that?"    After a hurried consultation about the state of their finances, Ernest whispered, "What do you think, Trudy?"    "We can manage," she said, and so the deal was made--and kept--over a simple handshake.

In the autumn of 1938, Gerty and Ernest proudly moved into their brand new home, but there was an underlying apprehension in the air that was threatening to grow ever larger.    The winds of war were beginning to blow in from the east.   (to be continued)

Neighbo(u)rs

When I was asked "Who are our neighbours?" at the Wesleyan Methodist Sunday School in Old Farnley, so many years ago, I thought it was a trick question.   I expected an immediate gold star, as I knew the names of everyone on my street.  But the waters were definitely muddied when I heard the story of  The Good Samaritan, because it became a complicated exercise that I was not yet equipped to answer.

Who were my neighbours?    Perhaps it depends on how the word is spelled.

The wonderful Wood family was our favorite neighbour when we lived at 28 Baronsmead in Whitkirk, Yorkshire.   The mother, Monica, who became my Mum's friend, tended such a beautiful garden filled with riotous color and complementary textures, that my mother, each spring, vowed she was going to emulate her.   However, by June, Mum had changed her mind, as it took more time and effort than she was willing to expend.  But we all continued to enjoy Monica's gift of  beauty to the entire street.

One kindly neighbor on Malcolm Avenue in West Los Angeles, was an elderly man who had a boa constrictor named Curly.  The poor creature's spine was lumpy and misshapen, and its skin literally curled over bony knobs along the entire length of his body.  My son was Curly's regular visitor, and when Roger's two cousins, Jason and Luke, visited from Adelaide, Australia, Curly was an integral part of the welcoming committee.   Later, when I was a docent at the Los Angeles Zoo and our neighbor developed leukemia, I found Curly a new home there. The malformed boa fascinated the children, and became a regular in the Discovery Circle (where we handled the animals and brought them up close to the children), along with a ferret, a burrowing owl, an opposum, a turtle, and a hawk.

Once, on a chilly day when I went to the reptile house to pick up a ball python to take the shedding Curly's place, the curator urged me to put the cloth bag holding the snake under my coat to keep it warm.   "It's the neighborly thing to do for our scaly buddies," he said.   So I did, and hugged it close.    When it was time to display the small python,  my ear heard a rattle and my hand definitely felt one as I reached into the bag to take out the snake.   I snatched back my hand, pulled the drawstring tightly on the bag, dangled it far from my body (in the cold air but who cared at that point?), and vibrated with anxiety all the way back to the reptile house where I vociferously complained about some lunatic who had given me a dangerous animal instead of a benign one.   "I could've been killed," I asserted to loud gales of laughter.   In the bag was the ball python with a rattler's rattle stuck to its spine--a reptile lover's idea of  a joke.  Ha ha.

My religious great grandmother, Emma Bradbury, was a well-known figure in her neighbourhood of Wortley, Leeds.   She was an important woman in the Salvation Army and took all its tenets seriously, including abstinence from alcohol.   She was a regular visitor to the local public houses, though, where she either kindly cajoled  or more grimly bullied their clientele to donate a little of their booze money for good causes in the area.   She could always be depended upon to utter entertaining sallies as she did so, no doubt accounting for her great success in this regard.  "You in your small corner . . ." were her words of thanks, taken from the lyrics of a well-known children's hymn.

Each Christmas, when my mother was small, Emma took her to Farnley Hall, the stately home of the Armitage family, to receive its annual donation for the Salvation Army.   It was a memorable experience for Mum.    As Emma was always invited to stay for a cup of tea in the kitchen, Mum looked forward to a slice of creamy sponge cake and a fizzy drink, treats that were unaffordable for her parents.  It was also a time when she felt special:  her sisters weren't there.

During World War II in England,  neighbours came from farther afield.    When my grandparents' house was completely obliterated by a bomb, my mother offered them a home with her in the countryside of New Farnley.   That lasted for three weeks, which was as long as my grandmother could stand the quiet of the surrounding fields and woods.   Instead, she volunteered to run a boarding house in the area known as The Grasmeres for single male war workers from around the country who had been posted to Leeds, and where she could once again enjoy the trams and other traffic noises.   One of her boarders, Mr. Hastie, stayed for quite a while after the war.   He entertained my cousin Norman and me at dinner by feeding us his peas from the edge of a knife whenever my grandmother was out of the room.   Another boarder, Cecil, also remained after the war, and worked at the News Theatre in Leeds.   He always sneaked in Dad and me for free.    It was where I fell in love with Laurel and Hardy and took an immediate dislike to The Three Stooges.

When my father was demobilized in 1946, there were still some German prisoners-of-war in the neighbourhood who were awaiting repatriation.   My father always spoke to these lonely men as they walked down Lawns Lane for exercise.   He befriended one of them who had a daughter the same age as me (four).   He was a cobbler, and he made me a pair of lovely slippers that he wove from some rope.

One day, a couple of neighbourhood men came to the house to demand that Dad either stop fraternizing with the enemy or they would see to it that he was ostracized.    My father was furious.   His response was to tell them to go jump in the lake (in Old Farnley about a mile away):   "I've done my bit for King and country," he told them.  "And I was in the Middle East and separated from my wife and child  for over three years," he continued.   "My daughter was 3 months old when I left, and three-and-a-half years old when I saw her next.  The friggin' war is now over," he said fiercely, "And some of these poor buggers have had the same experience as me-- haven't seen their kids in years, and are in need of some kind words and a friendly gesture.  So go right ahead and ostracize me." 

Neighbo(u)rs.   I guess, like most other things, they're in the sight of the beholder.

Power--But No Glory

It was a nightmare.

A number of men, all in a row, some representing religious institutions, were testifying about the horror of birth control, and why women in the United States should not be using any form of it.    But wait.   It wasn't a dream.  I actually saw this scene, broadcast from the U.S. Congress, in February, 2012.   At the same time, the state of Virginia was actually considering the governmental rape of women seeking abortion in the first trimester, by penetrating their vaginas with a foreign object in order to perform an ultrasound, so they have "all the information they need" before making this decision.   The assumption that such a step has not been given any thought by the women about to undergo this procedure is so patronizing and insulting that it defies a coherent response.

Rape: penetration without consent.

But on February 28 I was rendered totally gob-smacked by the latest in spewed hatred from Rush Limbaugh.    A female student at Georgetown University testified that her college friend lost an ovary because her insurance company refused to cover her treatment for cysts--which happened to be oral contraceptives.   Limbaugh's rant, which I don't intend to repeat here, concluded with an astonishing demand that women who use contraceptives covered by their insurance policies, are sluts and prostitutes and should videotape their sexual liaisons and post them on-line for everyone to see.   "I'm paying for them and this is what I want in return"--was his thesis.    John Boehner said his remarks were inappropriate.   Inappropriate?   That's it?



In Cutting For Stone, Abraham Verghesi illustrates the plight of young women in Ethiopia whose lives are destroyed by fistulas, occurring in the area between the vagina and the rectum, as a result of being too young, we're talking 10-15 years of age, when giving birth to a child.   These dreadful chasms in the body make it impossible for these poor girls to properly urinate or defecate, and they are thus treated as outcasts and pariahs because they are of no further use to their families or "society."    And to add insult to injury, they reek of faeces, and must live outside their neighborhoods.

But what about female circumcision?  And how many women insist that this dreadful "surgery" be carried out on their own daughters as a result of their acceptance of hundreds of years of an unquestioned barbaric practice?   We can also include the partial sewing-up of the vagina, so that women experience pain, not pleasure, upon intercourse.   If the idea is to keep the women faithful to their husbands, then I guess it works.   I always thought that our Puritan outlook on sex--ostracism in Hester Prynne's case-- was bad enough, but this?

I saw a BBC documentary recently about forced marriages carried out under the radar in Indian and Pakistani neghborhoods in the United Kingdom.    Some of the women ran away, but were hunted down by private detectives or were living in isolation with the ever-present fear that they would be discovered.   I also read articles about the murder of young women who caused their families living in England to lose their "honor" because they were:  a) seen unaccompanied with a young man, b) were the victims of rape, or c) were caught after they ran away in an unsuccessful attempt to avoid their fathers' or brothers' wrath.

And now this--the wanna-be presidential candidates in the United States republican party decrying birth control.

What is it about the need for dominance and power among some religious males over their female counterparts, aided and abetted in many instances by many female "believers?"   Who are these people?   We're certainly not in Somalia or Ethiopia or Saudi Arabia or Russia, which latter has its own thriving sex-industry commodity:  young women who are either kidnapped or promised a better life elsewhere as an au pair, but who end up in brothels usually in the west.  I don't let Thailand off the hook, either, as it is a mecca for pedophiles to indulge their proclivities with children who are sold by or kidnapped from their families.


Will we ever improve?   Is it enough to shine candlelight in our own small corner of the world as some of us try to do?

As a point of interest, the manufacturers of Viagra haven't a care in the world.

Before I Was Here, Part III

Gerty did not immediately accept Ernest's ring.  She knew she was falling in love with him, and that it was all over between her and Fred, but she needed to speak with her former fiance, and to set things right at home.   Ernest agreed.    When Gerty went back in the house with Fred's ring in her pocket, Milly was waiting for her.   "I don't like the way you've been behaving, my girl," she said.    "You're not being fair to Fred, and you're not being fair to me, either.   I didn't bring you up to wear one man's ring while you're going out with another. I want you to give me the ring Fred gave you."  Gerty obeyed, handed it over, and she never saw it again.

History is silent on her conversation with Fred, although the long-suffering suitor must have been prepared for it.    A few days later, Ernest came by to speak to her father.    It was much easier than he had anticipated.  Milly wasn't home, and George Henry was an agreeable and affable man; even more so when Ernest took him out to the pub for a pint later on.   When he found out that his daughter was Trudy on Ernest's lips, George simply said his usual, "Oh, aye," and it was left at that.

Ernest formally proposed to Gerty that night, and although she thought initially that his ring looked a little "lost" on her finger compared to the one she had given up, she was now madly in love and eager to look at the ring happily ever after.    Milly contented herself with a minimal: "Is that the best he can do?" and the matter was settled.

The following weekend, the happy couple went to Bridlington for the day.   On the way home, however, the motorbike hit a greasy spot and it took all of Ernest's skill to keep it upright as it skidded over the road and into the hedgerow.    Gerty's face hit Ernest's back with quite a force.    "Are you all right?" he asked in a panic, as he turned off the engine and dismounted to check on her.    Her nose was bleeding, but she smiled up at him to assure him she was all right.    Ernest's eyes widened and he took a step backwards.  "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked again, but his mouth was twitching.   "I'm thure ath can be," she answered, and then stopped in horror.     She could feel her tongue poking through a space in the front of her mouth where her teeth should have been.     Oh no!   Her bridge was gone.  When she was in her early teens, she had suffered a fall which had knocked out her two front teeth.    Understandably in any such sensitive young woman, her edentulous state was a topic fraught with danger for anyone who dared to mention it.    Ernest took out his handkerchief to wipe her face as her nose was bleeding, but despite his best efforts, he started to laugh.   

Gerty was mortified, but her embarrassment quickly turned to anger as her face reddened, her nose dripped blood on her chin, and Ernest's concern for her seemed shallow in the extreme, in light of his amusement.   She snatched his handkerchief from his grasp as she stepped off the bike, began to look on it, under it and through her clothing for the errant dentures, crying, "Thtop laughing at me.   I hate you, and I'll never thpeak to you again."     As Ernest turned away to search along the roadside, Gerty looked up and shrieked, "There they are.   Thtop.   Thtop.   My teeth are thtuck to the back of your jacket."  And sure enough, they were firmly embedded in the leather, with the metal prongs gaily glinting in the afternoon sun.

Once her bridge was back in place, Gerty calmed down.    Ernest apologized profusely for his ungallant behavior, then winked at her, chucked her under the chin, and gave her a big kiss as he tenderly wiped the remaining blood from her face.   Then they looked at each other--and laughed until their sides ached.  Except for a slightly swollen nose and slightly damaged dignity, Gerty recovered completely from the entire event.

Ernest was now a regular visitor to the Balmforth household, and he was a paragon of virtue in front of Milly.    She began to soften towards him, and allowed that he was a good looking young man, he worked hard at his job at Taylor's Chemist Shop, and was responsibly saving as much money as he could for the future.   In addition, he was now a dispenser, which was a considerable step up from a shop assistant.    He was obviously smart, and certainly very good company even if he was a bit glib.

Gerty was working hard at her two jobs.    She was also sewing her trousseau, and had just finished a beautiful green suit, which she tried on in front of her friend, Edna.    "I don't know when I'll wear it," she said as she caressed the material.  "Maybe on my honeymoon."    Edna was filled with admiration.    A few days later, Gerty ran into Edna on her way home from work.   "So you couldn't wait to wear it, could you?" Edna laughed.    "What do you mean?" asked Gerty.   "Your green suit.  I saw you going lickety split under the Wellington Street bridge the other night."   "Wellington Street bridge?" repeated a puzzled Gerty.  Then declared, "It wasn't me."   "Yes, it was," insisted Edna.  "I'd know that suit anywhere."

Saying a quick goodbye, Gerty hurried home, her temper rising.    She hurtled through the front door and confronted her sister who took one look at her face and tried to walk away.   "How could you!"    Gerty shouted.    Beaty stopped.   "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said smoothly.   "Don't you lie to me," Gerty shouted again.   "My suit was seen walking under the Wellington Street bridge, and you're the only one who steals my clothes.   How could you?" she repeated.   "I haven't even worn it myself, yet."    "Oh, well," shrugged Beaty.   "It's very comfortable, so you'll enjoy it when you put it on."     History is once again silent about a conversation in which Gerty was  involved.   However, it may be worth noting that fifty years later, the green suit was still a bone of contention between the sisters.

The wedding plans were small.    After a simple ceremony in the church at which both families were present, a wedding breakfast was held at the Cemetery public house owned by friends on the bride's side, and appropriately named because it faced the local graveyard.   Both Ernest and Gerty wore smart, new suits, and Gerty even flung a fox fur over her shoulder, the epitome of haute couture in June, 1937.    In a summer season rife with national gossip, their marriage announcement in the local paper vied with news of the upcoming nuptials of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.   (to be continued)

Annie Lizzie--A Quiet Life, Part II

The aforementioned wardrobe was always locked, and Aunty Annie had the only key, hidden--well--no-one knew where.   One day, when listening in on adult conversations (a favorite pastime),  I heard my mother say to Grandma, "Well, whatever does she keep in there that's such a secret?"   Grandma sniffed, and said she supposed it was all her money, for she certainly didn't spend any on clothes or outings."    Then, I heard Grandma tell my mother that she was tired of hearing the folk at the Forget-Me-Not Club say how lucky she was that she had such a wonderful sister.  "They never tell Annie how lucky she is to have me," she complained.  "They have no idea what she can be like.   Trying to persuade her to part with even a shilling is an uphill battle, and getting her to do any vacuuming or sweeping is impossible.   I wish I could switch places, so I could stop doing the heavier work and take over her dusting and dish-washing instead."

The only interesting part of this information for Pat and me was the wardrobe, and we tried hard to find out what Annie Lizzie had in it by searching for the key in the room (forbidden!) and following her up the stairs and peeking through the crack in the door.   But she was too canny for us, and when she opened the wardrobe, her key appeared like magic in her fingers.   She opened the door only wide enough to insert her hand and arm inside and pull out whatever she needed, usually an apron or cardigan.  She was always neat and tidy, but her clothes were shabby, bearing out Grandma's observations.

When my brother was small, he dreaded going to Blackpool.  He had asthma and eczema and they always, along with his agitation, became worse in the car on the way there.   My poor, dear,  little Tyke.   He was obviously suffering, but didn't have the vocabulary yet to tell us why.  Later on, we found out that the problem was with Annie Lizzie and her room.  He slept in the bed "for spare" in my tap dancing space between the storage boxes and the wardrobe.  He heard her clothes fall to the floor in the dark when she undressed, but he couldn't identify the sound;  when he looked at Annie Lizzie laying tidily in bed, almost upright in her white gown with her hands folded neatly across her chest, he imagined he was sleeping in a room with a dead body;  the wardrobe loomed over his bed like an ancient sepulchre holding who-knew-what horrors, and the gleaming white sheet was the spirit of Dearjim that looked as if it were moving in the shadows.     I was probably sleeping with Grandma, but if I happened to be sleeping with Aunty Annie, he couldn't see me in the valley.

The only time Grandma was really furious with Pat and me was when we hid at the bottom of the stairs and cried, "Boo!" when Annie Lizzie came down.  What a palaver.  She clutched her bosom and staggered to the couch, falling backwards in a heap.   She cried, "Oh, oh, oh," then closed her eyes and lay very still.   Grandma bounded into the room, took in the scene, and in a deadly, quiet voice, ordered us to go outside by the front door and NOT TO MOVE.   When Grandma joined us, she was trembling with anger.  We were really scared as we thought we must have killed Aunty Annie.   But it turned out the fury directed at us was because Grandma had spent a long time persuading her that, yes, she could manage to do a little sweeping, and Aunty Annie was preparing to try that very morning.   In one fell swoop, we had ruined several weeks of sweet-talking.   Once again, she was faced with having to do all the heavier work herself, and it was ALL OUR FAULT.

Not long after, Annie Lizzie issued a call to arms.   It was a regular rallying cry, "Ants, Em'ly, Ants."   Ants--the bane of their existence in the Blackpool house.   The little critters usually congregated along the threshhold of the back door or along the window sill in the kitchen before beginning their foray into the house, and their numbers were legion.  Hearing the alarm, Grandma prepared for action, armed with a tin of ant powder in each hand.  At this point, Annie Lizzie, having completed her mission, was hors de combat, and stood back to encourage her sister's fight.  The two of them were close allies--a veritable Betsey Trotwood and Mr. Dick of the Ant Brigade.   Muttering under her breath, Grandma liberally sprinkled the powder on the intruders, and with brush and tray, swept the dead bodies into the dustbin.    It was then cup-of-tea time to celebrate a battle won--but no resting on laurels as we all knew another assault by the little black devils was always in the offing.

When my parents, brother and I left England for Australia in 1958, the two sisters were still living together in Blackpool in peace and harmony--mostly.    I recall that Annie Lizzie never spoke sharply to or grumbled about any of us, but loved us in a calm and quiet way.   Grandma, talkative and in-charge, was realistic and pragmatic, but loved us anyway.   I saw them once after that on a trip back to England nine years later.   They were living with Grandma's daughter, my Aunt Emily--Pat's mother, and the three widows were amicably residing together in a large house in Burley-in-Wharfedale.  Emily owned a business and worked away from home, but she did the sweeping.   Grandma had taken over the dusting and dish-washing, but Annie Lizzie still got up to clear away the plates.

Many years later, I found out that when she was a young woman, Annie Lizzie had undergone a double mastectomy for cancer.  I can't imagine what it must have been like to undergo such an ordeal with ether as the anesthetic, with women's breast surgery in its infancy, and with mutilation and its terrible scars as inevitable--a daily reminder of her ordeal.   I thought about the courage of other women like her, who, when widowed, had only a small pension to sustain them, and so lived mainly through the largesse of siblings or extended family.   Perhaps that's why she didn't spend very much.   It is obvious that the family did not think she had a bad heart, and her long life also gainsays this conclusion.  I am led to wonder how many years her fear, suffered in silence following her shocking diagnosis and treatment, really lasted, and how likely it was that such dread led to her palpitations and conviction that she was doomed to live the rest of her life in poor health.  We'll never know.

I'm pretty sure she did look forward to all our visits, but her privacy, gained only in her bedroom, must have been treasured.  Her scant property and personal papers most certainly deserved a home under lock and key in her old, oak wardrobe, don't you think?

Annie Elizabeth Slater Beaumont, c. 1883-1975.   Annie Lizzie.    Bless her.

Annie Lizzie--A Quiet Life, Part I

My father's childless aunt, Annie Elizabeth, was his mother's older sister by about 18 months.  She was a softly spoken, gentle woman, small in stature, with short, gray hair, parted on the right and fixed back on the left with a bobby pin.  It was somewhat of a joke in the family that she enjoyed poor health and heart palpitations until the day she died at age 92--of a stroke.

When her husband, James Beaumont, passed away from asthma after twelve glorious years of marriage, the only photograph extant was of a thin, bewhiskered, stern-faced, nattily-dressed chap in a dark suit.  He carried a derby in one hand and a cane in the other.    Jim's photo in a silver frame was enshrined on her dressing table.  She spoke to the photograph of Dearjim, bless him, almost every time she entered her bedroom, and it sometimes felt as if he had just left the tea table, and was expected to walk through the door at any moment.   However, my mother told me that great uncle Jim had died many, many years ago, long before she and Dad had started courting in 1936.

After Dearjim, bless him, passed away, my great aunt moved back in with her widowed mother, and stayed with her until great grandma Slater died somewhere in the mid-1940s.  After that, she lived with the Chattertons--her sister Emily and brother-in-law Thomas Ambrose, and it's around that time that my memories of her begin.

The Chatterton house was on Argie Avenue in Kirkstall, Leeds, and it was a pretty cottage with a garden full of riotously blooming roses of all hues and scents.  The house itself smelled a little like a tap room with the faint odor of beer, cigar and cigarette smoke briefly surfacing from under the beeswax furniture polish.  My grandfather liked a beer or two and a smoke when he read the evening paper.   I loved that smell.  When we went there, Aunty Annie was always ready to serve up a cup of tea, but I never knew her to imbibe anything more than the occasional small glass of sherry.

Of course, when Thomas Ambrose retired, and the Chattertons moved to Blackpool to be near the sea, Aunty Annie moved with them.   They downsized into a small, white, row house with two rooms downstairs--a small kitchen/dining room and sitting room--and two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs.  In less than a year, my grandmother had roses blooming in the postage-stamp-sized front garden, and wandering over and about a trellis over the front door.   At twilight, the perfume was a soft covering of pleasure on the way to the front door.  Sadly, less than a year after he retired, Grandad Chatterton died of a coronary thrombosis.  Grandma said that if she and Aunty Annie hadn't gone into the bathroom when they did, he would've died on the toilet.   Fortunately, he was alive long enough to walk to the bedroom with assistance, and he passed away politely in bed.   A few months later, I remember seeing Grandma opening up the wardrobe in her bedroom, dissolving into tears, and Aunty Annie holding her very close and murmuring, "Let it out, love.  Let it all out.  I'm here."

As a term of endearment, my father sometimes called Aunty Annie, Annie Lizzie.  She would swat him lightly on the shoulder for taking such liberties, but her face suffused with smiles.  I think it was the name Grandad Chatterton had often called her.  However, when my cousin Brian, five years older than me, did so, she was not pleased, and told him not to be cheeky.  But the die had been cast, so when she was not within earshot, she became Annie Lizzie, and that's how I think of her still.

My father also teased her at mealtimes.  She had the appetite of a bird, but watched with satisfaction while the rest of us tucked in.  However, as soon as a knife and fork was placed down on a plate, she was up on her feet to whisk it away, to stack it in the sink for washing.  Dad complained that he never had time to ask for a second helping, and that there was nothing worse than a hovering woman.  She would smile and make a great issue of ignoring him.

I spent one week each summer at Grandma's.  My cousin Pat, 18 months younger than me, was there, too.  We were good friends, and I looked forward to our stay.  I don't recall Aunty Annie ever saying very much to us by way of conversation.  Grandma was the presence in the house, but Aunty Annie went along with whatever was decided for the day, unless it involved walking farther than the tram stop at the end of the street.   Claiming palpitations and holding her hand over her heart, she would demur and stay home.

Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, we all went on the tram to the Forget-Me-Not Club for old-age pensioners.   All the members wore silk sprigs of blue forget-me-nots on their dresses or lapels.  I always wanted one, but understood that there were strict rules governing the club.   One had to be a pensioner and pay dues, and NO exceptions were allowed.   Grandma went there to play whist, and Aunty Annie sat with a few other old ladies on the periphery, and played dominoes or simply sat and watched the game in progress.  In her soft voice, Annie Lizzie spoke of us as "Our Pat" and "Our Barbara," a north country habit, and usually added that we were her well-behaved great nieces, and a pleasure to have in the house.  As a result, we were petted and made much of by everyone.

We sat with Annie Lizzie and joined in the dominoes or maybe played two-handed knock-out whist.  We knew to be quiet when the main whist game began.  The players took the game very, very seriously.  The president of the club, Mrs. Higginbotham, started out each meeting with the National Anthem, "God Save the King."  The year he died, the words were changed to "God Save the Queen" but until everyone got used to it, it sounded like, "God Save the Kingween."   She then offered a prayer for the ones "who had gone before," and if there were recent "gone befores" she read out their names and gave a short eulogy.

Sometimes, instead of whist, there were "turns," when members came up onto the dais and sang songs like "Knees Up Mother Brown," or "Roll Out the Barrel," or recited poetry such as "The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck," or "The Charge of the Light Brigade."   I was always asked to play the piano, and so at Grandma's instructions, I had a party piece ready.  I loved the applause and my curtsey was rehearsed to perfection.   After that, tea and biscuits were served, and then we all stood and sang, "God Be With You 'Til We Meet Again."   That was the second time I saw my Grandma weeping, and Aunty Annie holding her hand.

The sleeping arrangements were simple.  One night, Pat slept in the double bed with Grandma and I slept in the three-quarter bed with Annie Lizzie.  The next night, Pat and I switched places.  There was a bed-settee in the sitting room, but that was only used by our parents.  The foldaway cot in Annie Lizzie's room was "for spare."

Annie Lizzie's bed was very high and pushed against the far wall under the window.  I suppose there were two thick mattresses on it.  When I was alone, I would leap on it and roll around, but when Annie Lizzie was present, I climbed up carefully.   There were three large pillows for her and one small one for me at its head.   She claimed she couldn't breathe properly if she lay flat.  When we were both in bed, I was wedged up against the wall in a claustrophobic valley created by the wall and her mountain of pillows.   I always hoped that they would stay in place so that she could continue her respiration through the night.

I was always in bed before Aunty Annie.  When she entered the room, she first closed the heavy curtains so that no light came in, and then she proceeded to disrobe in the dark.  I could hear her garments fall to the floor one by one, and there seemed to be a good many of them.   Then, when she had put on her nightdress, a long, white gown with a high neck and long sleeves, she turned on the bedside lamp under which her late husband's framed photograph resided, whispered, "Goodnight, Dearjim," pulled back the curtains a little, climbed into bed and turned out the light.  It was at this point that I could engage her in conversation if she were so inclined.  After tut-tutting that I should've been asleep ages ago, she sometimes shared with me her story about the time Dearjim took her to Ireland.  It was the highlight of her married life, I believe.  She explained that she had always wanted to see the Emerald Isle, she said this with a little lilt in her voice, and although his asthma continued to bother him, Dearjim was determined that she would have her wish.   Despite the fact that he was very seasick both going and coming back across the Irish Sea, he was happy that he had been able to make her dream come true.   I loved to hear that story, I knew it by heart, and it was evident that Aunty Annie enjoyed revisiting this precious time in her life.

One corner opposite her bed was used for storage.  Boxes and suitcases were stacked against the wall and covered with a white sheet which used to gleam palely in the night.  In the opposite corner to the storage was a large, dark-oak wardrobe.  I liked to tap dance on the wooden floor in the space between them, and could often complete a couple of numbers before Grandma yelled up the stairs for me to stop as it was getting on her nerves and giving Aunty Annie a headache and palpitations.   After several repetitions of this injunction, I was not allowed to visit Annie Lizzie's room unless I had a specific reason for going in to it, which did not include tap dancing, jumping on her bed or inspecting the articles on her dressing table.  I could never think of anything else to do in there.  Her wardrobe was off limits for exploration, and all my clothes were kept in Grandma's room.   Only my pajamas were stored under Annie Lizzie's gargantuan pillows.  (to be continued)

Musings in the Middle of the Night

Tossing and turning.  Can't sleep.  Thoughts all over the place.   Where am I going?   Is that the title of a song or am I supposed to come up with an answer?  Or shall I simply ponder the question?  I always thought I knew where I was going until life stepped in and convinced me that I didn't have a clue.  It does remind me of my poor sense of direction, though.   I'll start with a fairly clear idea of my destination, then, inevitably, I'll miss the street or I'll drive right past the place, and have to make a complicated turn-around to get back.   That's why I had to pay a large fine.   And go to traffic school.   An illegal U-turn.   Phooey.   I guess life's like that.  A series of right or wrong turns, or perhaps I should say a series of good or poor decisions.   I was an expert on the latter before I was 25 years old.  Hah!  But you can't keep a good woman down.  It's true that you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and, I've often wondered, who would want to try?  But you can make lemonade from a lemon.  I've learned that.  Many times.

Not very good at reading tarot cards.   Have two lovely packs of them, though.   A mythology set and a science set.    A science set of tarot cards?   Is that an oxymoron?   No.  It's a paradox.   Is it?    Romeo sighed, "Feathers of lead" and "bright smoke" when he was feeling depressed after being dumped by the fair Rosalind.    He was being paradoxical.   The Crown decrees.   That's another trope, but which one?   Can't think of it.   I hate when that happens.  

I'm proud to be a Capricorn.  Not sure why, except I suppose my goal has always been to keep going or climbing, but I've never really thought about what I would do if I ever reached the top.  Of what?  And how would I know?   Philosophy ties me in knots sometimes, but I do enjoy having a good think.   I'm envisioning a strong, muscular goat nimbly leaping from crag to crag, never peering downwards, but ever-energetically rising up out of the clouds, steadfastly aiming for a pinnacle.  No.  I'm going to change this mind-picture, as I really don't want to look like a goat, even though I know we dream/think in metaphors.  Erase it, erase it, erase it.  Anyway, I don't like heights--or climbing--or sweating.  I'd much rather sit in a comfortable chair, feet up, a cup of tea and a soft-centered chocolate at hand, as I read a good book.   Perhaps this is my ultimate destination as I age.   Gracefully, I hope.

Hmm.  Planning committees.   How many times have I had to listen to members of a planning committee pat themselves on the back after delivering pages and pages of ideas that fall apart immediately after implementation?  It was back to the drawing board, again and again.  Maybe this was their way of ensuring job security?   Security is something we yearn for at any age, but it's an illusion.  We think that we're in control of our lives, but the gods know better.  "They say at lover's perjuries, Jove laughs," Juliet warned.   Wow, why do Romeo and Juliet keep springing to mind?   Although their dialogue does kinda fit my thoughts, I suppose.  It's quite an interesting endeavor, trying to trace one's own train(s) of thought.  It's at these times, at this ungodly hour of 2:30 a.m., that I find myself attempting to unravel the meanderings of my brain.  Which I'll bet is fascinating only to me.

I'm aware of needing to go the bathroom.   But it's cold out there.   Now--wouldn't you know it, in pops a picture of me at age four or thereabouts, clutching my tilly, my mother's name for my vagina, and declaring in a stage whisper,  I have to go NOW!    And my mother dragging me off to the ladies on the second floor of Marks and Spencer's, whispering fiercely to me to remove my hand from THERE.   One of my friends told me her four-year-old daughter stood in line at the movie theater, rubbing herself THERE.   When told to stop, she answered that she didn't want to as it felt good.   I told my friend that it was a failure on her part to instill fear in her little girl that the child would go blind if she persisted.

My goodness, I've strayed far from planning committees.  I've nothing against them; in fact they're very important, but I don't want to join one ever again.  I still need to go to the bathroom, though, but don't worry, I don't intend to grab my private parts on the way.   Although I could.  It's dark.  I wonder if I will do that if I live long enough to develop dementia?  Another friend became a nurse on her sixtieth birthday, and worked in an Alzheimer unit for a while.  She quite enjoyed it as she only needed one or two talking points and she could greet her charges every day without varying a single word.  A few of her patients were often very funny.   One woman, in particular, an otherwise very proper and lady-like person, had an extended number of cuss words and oaths, and often stood by the nurses' station excoriating my friend for minutes at a time without taking a breath and, I might add, without repeating herself.   When she had exhausted her vocabulary, she would announce, "That's all I have," and walk off very sedately down the corridor.     Got it!   The Crown decrees.  Metonymy.

Punctuality

OMG.  I just woke up and I'm going to be late.   I'm retired for heaven's sake, so why did I make this appointment for so early?    What can I say?   What excuse can I give?    Can I claim the traffic?    Should I say my car wouldn't start?    I'm sure that if I weren't a Capricorn, I wouldn't be going through these gyrations.   I'm always on time.   I was known throughout the length and breadth of California for being punctual, and that mantle is again falling upon me now that I live in the state of Washington.   Barbara is always prompt, so many people have said, and if she's late, then you'd better worry about her 'cos something terrible must have happened.   My image is going to be shattered.   Hmmm, perhaps I could break my leg?    That would leave my image intact.    Perhaps, now this is just a thought:  perhaps--I could tell the truth?    Admit that I overslept?   

I don't think so.

Before I Was Here, Part II

"Where have you been?"  demanded Milly. "Mrs. Roland, from around the corner,  came to me three hours ago, asking if I knew that you were both out with a couple of young men on motorbikes.   They were all done up in leather jackets, and you two"--she spat out the words-- "were even wearing leather helmets.  If you were wearing borrowed helmets, that tells me it was a planned outing.   Don't you dare disappear!"   Out of the corner of her eye,  she caught Beaty sidling towards the stairs.    "You have some explaining to do, my girls."

Gerty spilled the beans, no doubt because she felt so guilty, and expiation was her only relief.     Beaty pressed her lips together, remaining above the fray and staying out of the line of fire.   After sharply rebuking both of them, the normally easy-going Milly extracted Gerty's promise that she would not remove Fred's ring under such circumstances again, and crossly told Beaty that she was far too young to go out with a man in his twenties.  "Off to bed, the pair of you.   I'm that embarrassed-- a neighbor coming to me with such a tale."

The girls squabbled their way to bed.  "Old tattletale," muttered Beaty.  "Why couldn't she mind her own business?"    "See what you've done?" fumed Gerty.   "Don't ever ask me to do a favour for you ever again.   And why didn't you say anything?   You could've taken some of the heat.  But no, you left it all up to me."

"Why should I?" answered Beaty.   "You're the oldest.  You're supposed to set an example."

Gerty was too upset and tired to come up with a suitable retort, so she simply grabbed her sister's arm and demanded her jumper back.

The next morning, at the mill gate, Ernest was sitting on his motorbike waiting for Gerty to arrive at work.    "I got into trouble last night," she told him.    "I'm engaged, and my Mam said it was a terrible thing that I did."    Ernest's eyes narrowed as he saw the beautiful, three-diamond ring on her finger.    "I was going to ask you if you wanted to go to Knaresborough on Saturday," he said.    "I thought I'd rent a rowboat and we can go on the river.   You can wear your engagement ring," he added.

So began a series of outings with Gerty wearing her ring, and Ernest entertaining her with his quick mind and wit.    She loved being on the motorbike, and they traveled all over Yorkshire--going to the coast, riding through the moors, stopping off at pubs, and walking in the dales. One day, as they hiked through the heather on the Ilkley Moors, she told Ernest that she didn't like being called Gerty and wished she had another name.    "Gertrude," said Ernest thoughtfully.    He looked at her closely.   "I agree," he said.   "Trudy suits you much better.   That's what I'll call you  from now on."   Because she was always so "busy," Gerty didn't have much time available to devote to her fiance, and Milly became increasingly dismayed at her daughter's seeming insensitivity to Fred's feelings.

A couple of weeks later, the sound of an enormous motor outside the house startled the entire street.   It roared loudly, and then sputtered and stopped.   All four sisters were home and rushed outside to see what was going on.   The neighbors were also out in full force;  Lily from next door, Mrs. Harbottle from across the street, and even the bow-legged Mrs. Cattel from a few doors farther up.   There sat Fred, white-faced and uncomfortably perched, on a top-of-the-line, brand new Harley Davidson.   He was dressed in a shiny leather jacket and shiny leather riding boots.   His leather helmet was replete with fancy buckles and huge goggles that seemed to match the sparkling chrome headlight on the front of the machine.   "Thought you might want to take a spin," he said in a macho voice that trembled in spite of itself.   Gerty's heart sank as dread rose up in her bosom.     She glanced at her two younger sisters, Laura and Kathleen, who were giggling uncontrollably, and then at Beaty, whose mouth was open in amazement.   "Go inside," she ordered them, and to her surprise they obeyed.  She also stared down the neighbors, who lowered their eyes and also went back inside their homes.

Meanwhile, Fred was having difficulty starting the bike and keeping it upright at the same time.   His white face became red as he struggled to maintain balance.    To Gerty's relief he took back his invitation for a ride, and decided he ought to drive around on it for a few days until he could vouch for her safety.

The next day, Ernest came by the house, smoothly dismounted from his motorcycle and parked it outside the door.   He was greeted quite coldly by Milly, but Gerty grabbed her coat, and ignoring her mother's attempt to communicate via a pursed mouth and swishes of her head, off they went for a walk down the street.   "I heard about Fred and his Harley," began Ernest.    "Oh, that," said Gerty faintly.   "I know it's a much fancier bike than my BSA," he continued, "but you like to go with me on it, don't you?    "Yes, I love it," she answered brightly, finally looking at him.     He fished around in his pocket and brought out a small box.  "And I love you, Trudy," he declared, "and I wish you'd take off that ring and wear this instead."   He opened the box and nestled in it was a three-diamond engagement ring, beautifully designed, but much, much smaller than the one she was wearing.  (to be continued)

Music Lessons

I was raised in the village of Farnley, Yorkshire, in the north of England.  It was a long time ago, but every time I hear, "Take a deep breath and begin," my mind flies back to those days, because these words of advice were offered to me by my music teacher every Tuesday evening at six o'clock.   My mother always sent me to my piano lessons five minutes before the appointed time, with clean hands and face, and half-a-crown clutched in one hand, my battered leather music case in the other.

Mr. Scott lived right across Lawns Lane, only a minute from our house, in a small, mews cottage built in the early 19th century for the stablemaster.   It sat across a cobblestone yard from Farnley Lodge, a much bigger home owned by Dr. Smith, the local physician.    Horse stables adjoined the mews cottage, and were still in use, but not for horses.   They now housed Dr. Smith's Wolseley which sat in lonely splendor amidst old tack hanging from the stone walls, various sizes of rusty pitchforks no longer needed, and assorted gardening implements which were kept clean.

When I knocked on the cottage door, Mrs. Scott, wearing a pinafore, an apron which covered both the bodice and skirt of her dress, usually let me in.  She led me across the stone floor of the small entry way to the parlor on the right, where I sat in a straight-backed chair in front of the ancient grandfather clock.  I can still hear the deep sounds of its ticking--tick tock tick tock.  The furnishings of the house were pure, early Victorian, with a large, black-leaded, coal-burning fireplace and oven, holding up a high mantelpiece with sepia-colored photos of women in long dresses and men in tailcoats.

Mr.Scott entered the room at two minutes to six, and usually stood in front of the fireplace as he adjusted his tie.  He was always neatly dressed in a dark suit and waistcoat, white shirt with a high celluloid collar, and well-shined black shoes.   When his collar and tie were adjusted to his satisfaction, he  took out his pocket watch which hung from the fob of his waistcoat on a gold chain, clicked open its lid, looked upon its face, and checked its hands with the hands on the clock.  When the grandfather struck six, a Windsor chime, he acknowledged my presence for the first time with a nod of his head, said good evening, accepted my proffered coin, and then led the way to the sitting room which was only used for company--and piano lessons.

The highly-polished spinet piano with the perfect tone, sat against the wall to the right of the door.   Its top was covered with a lace runner with a long fringe, with more sepia photos adorning it.    Mr.Scott motioned me to sit on the stool and twirl around until I was the right height for the keyboard (I loved to do that), then he drew up a chair to my right.   He waited for me to take out my music--I always had two books--one contained the piece I had practiced during the week, and the other was scales and finger exercises.   The latter always came first.  "Take a deep breath and begin," he intoned, "Tonight, the D-major scale, two octaves."

Thus began the fastest of half-hours.  I respected Mr. Scott, took to heart his instructions, and glowed whenever he said I was doing well.  I was always prepared for my lessons, because I wanted to please him.  I was too young to realize that practicing hard was really for my own benefit.

As well as teaching piano, Mr. Scott was the organist at Farnley Church of England--St. Michael's.  It was a small but beautiful edifice, built of stone from the nearby quarry, with high, arching beams over the nave, and spectacular stained-glass windows.  Outside was a stone cenotaph to the fallen World War I soldiers of Farnley, which declared, "Lest We Forget" at its foot.  I was never quite sure what I was supposed to remember, and mused upon this message on my way into the church.  I always sat in the upstairs gallery and as close as possible to the organ with its soaring pipes.  There, I looked over the tiered keyboards and watched Mr. Scott's hands, as his fingers confidently pressed the keys or pulled out the stops, and his feet flew over the pedals.

Some Thoughts on Being a Unitarian Universalist--Deed Not Creed

I left institutional religion behind many years ago.   My mind couldn't wrap around what I considered to be myth and superstition, and I spent the next thirty years religion free and never felt the need for it.

Now it is 1993, a year of flux and many, many changes.  My husband's business had fallen apart, we had to sell our home and move to an apartment, my son left home for college, I was finishing up my Master's degree in English, and I began a demanding new career teaching at an independent prep school.   I was totally overwhelmed.   The feeling that the well was empty began to consume me.   I needed help.

It was easy in Southern California to find spiritual guidance.   You name a cult or sect, Los Angeles has it.  I decided that I would "do the rounds" of churches to see if there was anything that worked for me.  Although I hadn't changed my mind about myth and superstition, I had read enough of Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell to figure out that myth is important to us, because it embraces another way of thinking about the world (and who doesn't enjoy a good story?), and like poetry and music, can transcend our material level of being.

First,  I went back to early experiences and visited a Methodist church, but discovered that both God and Jesus Christ, although One, were watching my every move--plus I often drink wine, and alcohol even in moderation, is a no-no.  I tried Science of Mind, but the minister, in his bright red jacket, thought he was very charismatic--and I didn't agree.    I enjoyed Paramahansa Yoginanda's Self-Realization Fellowship, but it didn't quite hit the spot.

Finally, I entered the UU Church of Santa Monica, and immediately felt comfortable.   I loved that the walls were decorated with symbols of world religions to acknowledge that wisdom from other cultures and belief systems can be relevant to us; that the music that first day was from the forties (Sinatra) with an uplifting beat and melody; and that the message that first day, "life itself is the miracle," taken from the words of 19th century UU theologian, philosopher, writer, and poet, Ralph Waldo Emerson all beckoned to me.  Emerson also wrote: "The invariable mark of wisdom is to see the miraculous in the common."

What a splendid way to view life, I thought.     I was home.

Most Unitarian Universalists do not believe in life after death, and in his essay "Awakening," the late F .Forrester Church, a UU Minister and a wonderfully prolific writer, explains that by "offering religious security blankets and heavenly insurance policies, many faiths base their considerable appeal on a denial of death."   He then goes on to say: "By refusing to accept the dispensation of death as a condition for the gift of birth, life's intrinsic wonder and promise are diminished."

Forrester Church also offers a different connotation of the fundamental Christian phrase "born again."    He states that we are born again "when we awaken to the fact that life is not a given--not something to be taken for granted, or transcended after death--but a gift, undeserved and unexpected, holy, awesome, and mysterious."     As Unitarian Universalists, we are free to choose our beliefs, but as Forrester Church reminds us, "we are responsible for what we make of that freedom."


My duties at school were wide and demanding, and I had little time or energy left for anything except my job during the school year.  But, I joined the UU Welcome Committee which meant that one Sunday each month I stood by the Hospitality Cart during the coffee hour and engaged in conversation with anyone who was new or seemed a little lost.  It was a small thing to do, but I was doing something, and I felt connected to the community.    Attendance each Sunday became precious to me, and I took to heart so much of what the services called for:  acts of kindness, demands for justice, equality for all, and appeals to conscience via intellect and reason.  The well was refilled again and again, and it was good to see familiar faces on a regular basis.  The Reverend Judith Meyer pointed out that " . . . the need for affiliation is human nature.   We do not thrive on isolation whether it is social or spiritual.   Community confers benefits.  Our lives are longer and healthier with companionship;  our dispositions stay supple and our hearts stay open."  

I agree with all my heart.

In those days, I promised myself that when I retired, I would find ways to become a more integral part of the UU community, and now that has come to pass.  I am a retiree, and am blessed to live in Bellingham, Washington, at this stage in my life in spite of the two terrible blows we suffered since moving here (see Reflection I).

I am so grateful for the spirit of Bellingham Unitarian Universalist Fellowship (BUF), and the kindness its minister, the Reverend Doug Wadkins, and so many of its congregation has extended to me.   I look forward to supporting and taking part in its good works for as long as I'm able.  Not only that, but along the way we have lots of laughs, plenty of opportunities to find out where we fit, and the pleasure of being among talented, motivated, and kindred spirits.

Before I Was Here, Part I

Before I was here, there was a young woman called Gerty.  She hated her name, but wasn't willing to make a fuss about it because she was named in honor of a beloved aunt, and heaven forbid she should hurt anyone's feelings.  So, Gerty, obviously a rather dutiful young woman, took care of her three younger sisters while her mother, a weaver,  was working in the woollen mill, and then, at age 14, she left school to work in the mill as well, so she could add her small wages to her mother's to support the family.   You see, her father had been wounded in World War I, came back to England from the trenches of France thoroughly shell-shocked, and was unable to work on a regular basis because he had been bombed and gassed--his eyes constantly watered, he sometimes had difficulty breathing, he was very nervous, and he was quite deaf.

Each Saturday, Gerty went off to Woolworth's where she worked behind the makeup counter for eight hours, so she could have spending money for material to sew new clothes, buy tickets to the pictures, or have funds for a charabanc trip to Morecombe or Blackpool on occasional summer Sundays.   Most every Sunday though, she put on her navy blue and red Salvation Army uniform, including the bonnet with the bow on the side, and accompanied her grandmother to the morning and evening services or the evangelical marches on Friday evenings and Sunday afternoons.   These were fun, with the band merrily playing all the old hymns and accompanying the songsters who sang whenever they stopped on a vacant lot or on the grassy area outside the local picture house.    Her grandmother was the one carrying the banner at the head of all the processions.   At these outdoor events, she vaguely knew some of the band members, including the Chatterton brothers, Thomas and Ernest, who played euphonium and cornet respectively.

Her younger sister, Beaty, was the siren of the family and had a long line of beaux who fancied her.   On the other hand, Gerty was respectably engaged to a builder, Fred Kneeshaw, a stable and responsible young man who had good prospects.   One evening, Beaty, who had a mind of her own and had set her cap at Tommy Chatterton, stopped Gerty at the door to the house for a little chat.   She explained that she really liked Tommy and had tried to send him a message to that effect.  Unfortunately, the message reached Ernest instead, who promptly did the gentlemanly thing and asked her out.   Beaty accepted the date with the proviso that Ernest bring his brother for her sister, as that was the only way her mother would allow her out.   "Done!" agreed Ernest.

"You have to save me from a life of sadness and hopeless misery," moaned Beaty to Gerty.  And in  her usual dramatic manner she threw in, "You have to double date with the Chatterton brothers or I shall die."    Gerty was very skeptical.   "What's Mam going to say about  an engaged woman going out with another man for the evening?" she asked reasonably.   "And why can't you tell Ernest it's Tommy you sent the message to?  Why do you always have to lie?"  To underline her objection, she also threw in some drama, "What's more, you know mother'll kill me if she finds out what I've done."    Beaty had it all worked out.    "I can't tell Ernest that," she cried.   "It would make me look such a fool. Besides, they'll each be on their own motorbike, and they'll pick us up at the end of the street so Mam won't know.     You'll go first and climb on the pillion seat of Ernest's bike 'by mistake' then I'll have to climb up behind Tommy on his bike--reluctantly."  

After much persuading, pouting and generally making a nuisance of herself, Beaty finally got Gerty to agree to help her out.     On the appointed night, the two sisters walked to the end of the street where the boys in their leather jackets were confidently waiting.  Gerty slipped off her engagement ring and put it in her pocket.   The motorbikes were shined to a fare-thee-well, and as both Tommy and Ernest were trying to outdo one another in the engine revving department, it was quite easy for Gerty to perch behind Ernest, and for Beaty to fling her arms around Tommy's waist as she climbed up behind him.

Gerty and Ernest ended up in Guiseley, and over a penn'oth of chips and a fish each with salt and vinegar, they laughed and talked and enjoyed each other's company immensely.   Ernest asked Gerty out again, and to her surprise, she agreed before she realized what she was saying.   Ernest waited with her at the end of the street until Tommy and Beaty came roaring up, and then she slipped on her ring before walking up the street and into the house--where their mother was waiting with a face like thunder.     (to be continued)